


the plains of your back remain untravelled

by MistressKat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Lately, when it comes to sex, Dean is all over every cliché in the book, clinging to the stereotype like it will somehow make a difference. Like it can save them.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the plains of your back remain untravelled

**Author's Note:**

> This was written way back during the early seasons, and was originally meant to be a part of a themed set. Posted now as, while I’ll never finish the whole thing, parts of it will work as standalones. Excellent beta-reading provided by [virtualinsomnia](http://virtualinsomnia.livejournal.com/).

 

 

The cold is like a living entity, the air brittle and biting rushing into his lungs, wet and white rushing out. Sam leans against an apartment building somewhere in downtown Philadelphia, the brick wall dirty and slippery with frost. His hands are balled tightly inside his jacket pockets, for warmth yes, but mainly to keep himself from slamming them repeatedly against the nearest hard surface.  
  
The third story window in the building across the street is the only one still lit, and Sam knows that’s where Dean is. His brother likes to fuck with the lights on. “I like to see what I’m doing, Sammy.” Wink, wink. “Can’t find your dick in the dark, eh?” Nudge, nudge. “I’ll have you know, it’s difficult to miss.” Jostle, shove, information filed away.  
  
Only it’s not so funny anymore. Hasn’t been for a while now. Every goddamn city and small town and fucking rest stop, every free moment they’ve had for the last month, Dean is out getting laid. And when he’s not, he’s planning on it, talking about it and, on one occasion – the memory of which makes Sam achingly hard even in the sub-zero temperature of the night – having vivid dreams about it.  
  
He watches Dean exit the building, catching the front door behind him and shutting it quietly before it bangs. He jogs down the steps, limbs loose and relaxed, pausing at the bottom to light a cigarette.  
  
This is new as well. Dean doesn’t smoke. Except, apparently, after a fuck. It’s such a clichéd thing to do, and usually Dean isn’t one to conform to the expected. But lately, when it comes to sex, Dean is all over every cliché in the book, clinging to the stereotype like it will somehow make a difference. Like it can save them.  
  
Sam doesn’t think it will.  
  
He shifts slightly, just enough to draw Dean’s attention. His brother freezes for a split second, the glowing end of the cigarette casting flickering shadows across his face, before he recognizes Sam.  
  
Dean crosses the empty street slowly, eyes doing a constant scan of their surroundings, looking for an explanation.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
The bark of laughter is like ashes in his mouth. What’s wrong? _Jesus_. Sam pushes off the wall and crowds into his brother’s personal space, letting his anger and height answer for him. Dean doesn’t back down, and they end up almost chest to chest, the air between them hot and alive, throbbing with things unnamed.  
  
“You think you can fuck your way out of this? You seriously think that you can lose yourself in slut after slut and I won’t still be here afterwards?”  
  
To his credit Dean doesn’t even pretend not to know what they’re talking about. His eyes drop down and away but, if anything, his body tenses further. Sam can see the tendons in his neck tighten, the pulse beating against the soft leather of his collar.  
  
“You have a better idea? Well, don’t hold back on my account. Why don’t you share with the class, _Samuel?_ ” Dean’s voice is harsh and tight, words tearing at Sam’s skin like shards of frosted glass, but he’s still not looking up.  
  
“Why are you fighting this, Dean?”  
  
“You heard what she said!”  
  
“She was a kid; she knew shit! Barely sixteen and half mad from voices in her head!”  
  
“Goddammit, Sam, she was Touched!” Dean’s whole body radiates anger and frustration, like he really believes it’s Sam who’s in the wrong here. “I can’t just pretend--“  
  
“But that’s exactly what we’re doing. Pretending. Aren’t you tired, _brother?_ ” Sam uses the word deliberately, twisting it like a blade, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “I am.” Dean’s head jerks up, and Sam takes advantage, fingers reaching out to grasp Dean’s jaw, forcing their eyes together.  
  
“We deserve this! We’re fucking _owed!_ ” He’s angry and jealous and bone-weary. His body feels fractured, like he’s full of holes, seconds away from simply collapsing in on himself.  
  
He lets his fingers unclench, hands trailing down to Dean’s lapels, smoothing them.  “She doesn’t know how it is, Dean. How it is for us. No one does.” And it’s a truth and a plea and a fucking _sacrament_ all wrapped in one, and Sam holds his breath, waiting for Dean to just take it. That’s all he has to do, accept it, just one goddamn sign and Sam will give him everything he has, _everything_.  
  
But Dean’s eyes slip away, and Sam has to breathe sometime, only what comes out of his mouth is more like a sob than an exhalation. They’re so close that Sam can smell the arid mix of smoke and whisky in Dean’s breath, but even that’s not enough to mask what’s lingering underneath.  
  
Sam opens his mouth, inhales the unmistakable taste of pussy, sharp and heavy and all over his brother’s face.  
  
And suddenly it’s just too much. The image of Dean, head buried between some whore’s thighs, is like a kick to the gut, and Sam sees red.  
  
He flips them over, slamming Dean against the wall, the bones of his wrists grinding together where Sam pushes them into the cold bricks.  
  
Dean grunts with surprise, a little almost-moan that burns through Sam, and not tasting his brother’s skin isn’t even an option. Under his hands and teeth and want Dean yields, body opening like a written invitation, and Sam is done waiting.  
  
But Dean’s lips are moving, and they’re making a lie out of what the rest of him is saying. “No, Sammy. We can’t.”  
  
And when it comes down to it, Dean’s right. He can’t. Can’t just take what is not freely given, no matter what’s at stake. So Sam backs off, dropping his hands and letting his brother walk away.  
  
The cold seeps back in, tendrils of dry frost wrapping themselves around him like a noose. Sam shoves his fists back into his pockets and heads in the opposite direction. There’s bound to be a late-night bar or club open somewhere. He wonders how many people he’ll need to fuck to erase the taste of his brother from his tongue.  
  
He thinks Dean’s up to double figures by now. It appears Sam has some catching up to do.  
  
  



End file.
